


2017 Drabbles

by Radella_Hardwick



Series: Thomas Hunt stories [1]
Category: High School Story (Video Game), Hollywood U: Rising Star
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27480070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radella_Hardwick/pseuds/Radella_Hardwick
Summary: Today, probably as a way of escaping NaNoWriMo, my brain presented me with the idea of going back to Hollywood U and writing the epically long fic I've been promising myself.In preparation, I read over the drabbles I wrote at the time (2017), when I was playing these games regularly. And I don't hate them.So, I thought you might want to read them.These stories are born of my frustration with the dialogue written for the main character and how rarely you get to choose what is said
Relationships: Thomas Hunt/Main Character (Hollywood U)
Series: Thomas Hunt stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008021
Kudos: 3





	1. High School Story graduate Hits the Club

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble summary: what might have happened if the Hollywood U main character had already played through the "Lights, Camera, Action" quest in High School Story
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

My new friends, Stan and Addison, and I step out of a limo that the other girl had summoned to convey us to  _ Blitz _ , the current hottest club.

“Look at this line!” gasps Stan, who as a fellow Freshman is probably as overwhelmed as me. “Hopefully we’ll get in before midnight.”

“It’s usually not  _ this _ crowded,” Addison assures us. “Something must be going on... let’s go talk to the bouncer.” She leads us over to the hulking guy blocking the front door. “Hi, Diego,” she calls and the tattooed giant turns to her with a grin. “It’s just the three of us. My name should be on the VIP list.” The smile falls from his lips; his eyes are impossible to see behind the mirrored shades he wears in deference to the midnight sun.

“Not tonight, Addison. The cast of  _ Fireman: Inferno _ is having a wrap party here. Even Chris Winters showed up.” As my brain is still processing this, Bianca and her entourage saunter over.

“Can’t get in?” she sneers. “That’s just too bad.”

“Actually–” I bite out but Jenni cuts across me.

“OMG, I’m live-tweeting this and…”

“Hey, Diego, you said Chris is inside?” I say, turning a beam on the bouncer. Thankfully, I ran out of time to swap the night's essentials into my clubbing clutch, so I'm carrying my normal purse.

“Chris who?” frowns Diego.

“#BecksandAddisonClubFail is totally trending!” squeals Jenni.

“Chris Winters,” I answer the bouncer, coming up with a 6-inch headshot and a black gel-pen. Diego crosses his arms and his frown deepens.

“Lemme guess, this is the part where you tell me that you know him?”

“I do, actually,” I beam as I scribble a note to Chris on the back of my headshot. “We starred in a film together a couple of years ago.” Bianca, who still hasn't taken her group inside, gasps as I circle the credit for  _ Hamartia _ that's printed on the card. I hold it out to the bouncer with another, sharper smile. “Any chance you could get that to Chris Winters?” Diego takes it and reads my note, slowly, aloud.

“Hey, Chris… Long time… no see… Any chance… of you… introducing… me to your… new co-stars? Love… your Andy.” He raises his eyes from the card. “But, at the top, it says your name is Rebecca?”

“Yes but Andy was my character in our film.” I try my hardest to keep the sound of enforced patience out of my voice but I'm not entirely sure I'm successful.

“Bianca, babe,” begins the ripped male model beside her but the princess waves him to silence.

“So, what, you want me to get a bouncer to go find Chris Winters and interrupt his evening just because you can't be bothered to wait?”

“I'd be  _ perfectly _ happy to wait,” I begin with the sweetest smile I can manage under the pressure. “But I would really like to see Chris. So, if you could get that to him, I would greatly appreciate it. Please.” Diego shrugs and his face breaks into a grin.

“Give me a sec.” He turns to talk to someone inside and my attention is drawn to Bianca’s boyfriend as he steps past her.

“Get out of our way.  _ Real _ VIPs are trying to get in.”

“No, Lance,” smirks Bianca. “I want to see this.” We don't have long to wait; within ten minutes, the internationally famous action star is slipping past Diego.

“Becks!” he cries, his face alight with delight upon spotting me. With a glance at Bianca and the crowd behind her, which includes paparazzi, I decide to play it up. So, rather than stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek, I plant my hands on my hips and give him a determined glare, although the party dress and glittery eye shadow rather undermine the effect.

“Who are you?” I bark at him and his smile fades as he works out what I'm doing, then his face sets into a scowl.

“That's strictly need-to-know. And you don't need to know,” he retorts and then winks at me. I relax my posture and grin at him, and he closes the distance between us to sweep me off my feet in a tight hug. “What’re you  _ doing _ here?”

“My friends and I are students at Hollywood University,” I reply, once he's put me back on my feet, careful not to include Bianca and her hangers-on in my gesture. He holds out a hand to Addison.

“Hey, I'm Chris Winters. What's your name?”

“Addison Sinclair,” she squeaks and then shakes his hand. Chris flashes her a brilliant smile.

“Nice to meet you. And you are?” 

“Stan Farina,” answers my other fashion-minded friend with a slight stammer and awe in his eyes. In this moment, he looks so like Payton when she first met Sebastian that I have to stifle a giggle.

“Was that a  _ yawn _ ?” asks Chris, insistently, swinging back to stare at me.

“Well, we  _ did _ finish pre-drinking over an hour ago. Maybe the after-effects of the alcohol are catching up with me,” I offer in as flirtatious a manner as I could manage with Bianca glaring daggers at me.

“Let's get you inside before you decide to go home,” says Chris, slipping an arm around my waist and turning us toward the door.

“Would I do a thing like that?” I tease, tipping my head back against his shoulder to smirk at him.


	2. High School Open Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: how the lunch scene in the "Mentorship" side quest could have gone
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

“What are you losers doing at my table?” sneered the altogether too familiar voice of Anders Stone’s more spoiled daughter. High on Thomas’ back-handed compliments and promise of an actual date, I was less inclined to tolerate her dictatorial attitude and more inclined to bet on my credit with our all-powerful professor.

“Bianca,  _ darling _ ,” I drawled, intent on remaining as polite as possible in front of our mentees. “You remember when Professor Hunt said this program is more important than any of us?” The celebutante’s eyes flashed with anger as she realised what I meant but her muscle-head, model boyfriend provided the prompt.

“Yeah?” supplied Lance with so little engagement and such a wide stretching of his mouth that I was surprised not to see drool leaking down his chin.

“That requires you to be nice to  _ all _ the high school students in the program, not just those you're showing around.”

“Bianca, why are we still listening to this loser?” interrupted Jenni, her nasal Valley squeak grating on my nerves as always.

“ _ Because _ I'm still waiting for them to explain what they're doing at  _ my  _ table.” I sighed, dramatically, and got to my feet as I felt at a disadvantage trapped behind the table. As I stepped closer to my teenaged antagonist, it occurred to me that I could talk more quietly at this distance, keeping the high school students out of it.

“It's not your table,” I explained in a voice laden with all the exhaustion of dealing with her. “It's only your table when  _ you're _ occupying it.  _ All _ of the time, it belongs to the owner of this establishment and, on this occasion, she has reserved it for Ethan and his entourage.”

“I thought  _ he _ was in  _ your _ entourage,” shrieked Jenni at a pitch that would allow the whole restaurant to join our conversation, although she was probably live-tweeting the whole conversation and so the volume of her voice was unlikely to alter the number of people engaging with our conversation.

“Jenni, I don't know how it works with you and your  _ friends,  _ but  _ we _ don't have one supreme ruler who's always in charge.” True to the course of my luck, that was the moment when Thomas entered with a stack of paper under one arm, the server turned up with the first half of our order and the owner accosted our antagonists; not entirely terrible but hardly what one would describe as good.


	3. High School History Comes to Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: the first of two alternate scenarios that sprang to mind when playing the "Freaks and Greeks" quest  
> this one also relies on the MC having lived through the "Lights, Camera, Action" and "Star-Studded" quests from High School Story
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ethan is the POV character for this one

My friends and I sit in Thomas Hunt’s office, waiting for him to deliver the sentence on our proposed co-ed fraternity. I get so nervous that I can't control myself.

“You’ll see, Professor, that all of the necessary filings are there–” The man, a veritable deity among filmmakers holds up a lone finger to silence me. After Crash and Becks’ face-off with the Rho Bros, I poured my heart and soul into writing the charter for Pi Iota Epsilon and now he won't even let me explain that everything is in order. Finally, he shuffles the papers together and tosses them across the table to Becks as though she's the only one who matters.

“No,” he states, glaring at her and, suddenly, I'm very glad not to be the focus of his attention. Becks, however, takes it very calmly. She stands up, lifting the paperwork as she does, and sucks her teeth.

“What a pity,” she begins in a flat voice, a voice devoid of all emotion but perhaps carrying a hint of irony. “This is a project that matters a lot to me, my friends and probably most people in your class. But, I suppose, that doesn't matter… so long as you don't have a project that matters to you any time in the next four years. A project that needs underpaid extras or last-minute stuntmen or a cutting edge theme song.”

“Working on a film with me will improve their careers,” Hunt smirks. “You're not going to persuade them to give that up over some backwater cesspool of debauchery.”

“Really? Because  _ Hamartia  _ doesn't seem to be opening any doors for me.” Hunt seems to be grinding his teeth as he snatches back the paperwork and signs in all the requisite places. I look up at Becks, who's still looming over the desk, expecting to see her gloating but she just looks sad. Whatever  _ Hamartia  _ is, it's clear that neither of them are going to tell me. Addison, Lisa, Crash and I are going to have to figure this one out for ourselves.

*~*

“ _ Ka-boom _ ! We did it! Well done, Becks!” extols Crash, capering around.

“We still have lots of work to do,” she states, barely smiling at our friend's antics. She sounds so tired that it's actually beginning to worry me. “First, we’ll need a house; though, I don’t know how we’ll find one we can afford in this area…”

“Ooh! I’ve got the best real estate agent! She helped me find my mansion. She’ll totally be able to hook us up,” gushes Lisa, reaching for Becks’ arm but she shuffles out of reach.

“Great. If you could head that up, that would be great.” Her eyes descend to her watch and then she smiles at me. “You'll have to excuse me; I have a  _ Ms Right  _ production meeting to attend.” She gives us all a feeble wave and then strides away.

“Is it just me or did they just ‘have a moment’?” I ask the others, once she's safely out of sight.

“It sounded like they did a movie together,” muses Addison.

“When?” exclaims Lisa, incredulously. “Between Hunt’s pair-work assignments, shooting music videos for me and Rose–”

“Helping me with my internship,” interposes Addison.

“And filming  _ Clash at Sunset,  _ when has she had time?”

“Why don't we Yahoo it?” I suggest.

“Sure!” enthuses Crash, pulling out his JCB phone. “How do ya spell  _ Hamartia _ ?”

“I'm looking up Hunt’s filmography now,” mutters Lisa, reassuringly. “Wow! There is a film called  _ Hamartia _ and Becks is billed in it but it's like two years old.”

“What?!” we all splutter.

“She was still in high school two years ago,” Addison points out.

“Yeah, well, she's billed as ‘Andy – lead hostage’ and then there's ‘teen hostage #1’, ‘teen hostage #2’, etc.,” explains Lisa, still looking at her phone screen.

“Let’s head to the campus library,” I suggest. “They have MiniDiscs of all Hunt’s movies.”

“Did you know she co-starred in a teen romcom with that guy who played Bruce Vance?”

“Yes, Lisa,” I reply. “I have seen her resume.”

“So, how come you didn't know about  _ Hamartia _ ?” challenges Addison.

“It wasn't on there,” I admit.

“How did she expect it to open doors if no-one knows about it?” frowns Crash.

“Well, it opened one door.” Lisa looks like she's finally finished a jigsaw as she speaks. “I always wondered how she persuaded Chris Winters to lend us his beach house for my music video but  _ Hamartia _ is an Agent Myers movie.” We make various noises of realisation and then let the topic drop as we enter the library. At Addison’s insistence, we rent  _ Double Dare _ as well as  _ Hamartia _ .

“OK, whose dorm room are we invading?” she beams.

“I’d offer mine but, with everyone practising in their rooms, I have to wear noise-canceling headphones to watch anything,” says Lisa, apologetically.

“I don't have any gear left after last night's rocket-skateboard race,” adds Crash with an apologetic smile.

“You can come to mine,” offers Addison. “My roommate shouldn't be in for a few hours.”

“We're going to mine,” I insist. “No roommate  _ and  _ I've got a couch.” We all traipse back to my HU home and I set up the MiniDisc player, while the others settle onto my couch. I remove my suit-jacket and drape it around the waiting hanger before joining them. As Chris Winters dives out of an exploding helicopter, I realise that I have seen  _ Hamartia _ . I love spy thrillers, so I probably saw it when it came out but I don't know how I failed to recognise Becks when we first met. We all recognise her now, the moment she appears on screen. Apart from the fact that her hair is shorter on screen, it could have been shot today. Becks leans against the wall of the abandoned mansion, while two football jocks sit at her feet, bound back-to-back.

“Where… where  _ are _ we?” whimpers an African American girl.

“Oh!” gasps Addison next to me. “I  _ know _ her. She was one of the kids from Becks’ high school who came to the open day.”

“We're not nobodies,” growls Becks from the TV. “We're  _ bait _ .” The resentment and determination in her eyes reminds me of when she faced down the ginger Rho Bro. When she declares that the hostages have to save themselves and starts outlining the plan, it sounds just like when she comes up with a scheme to salvage a failing project.

“Wow. She's  _ really _ playing to her strengths,” comments Lisa. “She's, like, so natural in this role.” The next several minutes are filled with Chris Winters fighting his way to the hostages’ prison.

“Who are you?” Becks snaps at him, after he crashes through the wall, and we all laugh.

“That's strictly need-to-know. And you don't need to know,” retorts the action star as he checks the hall for assailants.

“Hold on! How do we know we can trust  _ you _ ?”

“You don't. But I'm your only option.” The look Becks gives in response to that is pure sass. It's one I've seen her give Hunt and Ratzik and Stone; it's one that says ‘just because you have been doing this longer that does not mean you are right’.

“Actually…” she smirks. “You're wrong. I've got a better way.” The rest of the action sequence plays out, Becks and the other hostages escape, and disappear from the film. Winters goes back to find the criminal mastermind and, with some clever cinematography, it's clear that he's not only fighting the guards but also his own demons. When the credits roll, we all sit there in silence for a minute.

“I don't get it,” grumbles Crash. “How does that get us our charter?”

“I don't know. Addi, did you say you recognised that girl?”

“I recognised several of them but Payton’s the one who gave me her number.”

“Wait! You've got the number for someone who was  _ on set  _ with Becks and Hunt?” exclaims Lisa. Addison shrugs. “ _ Call _ her. I want to know what they were like. I mean, if she already  _ knew _ how horrible Hunt was, why did she come to Hollywood U?” As Addison calls the high-schooler and gets gossiping with her, I switch over the MiniDiscs and Crash heads into the en suite. When I return to the couch, the voice on the phone is saying:

“He was really hard on Chris -- making him go through that wall, again and again. Then he turns to Becks, looking all fierce, and is like 'keep up the good work'. She was all in-character, so just kinda nodded. But, later, when we were changing out of our costumes, she was absolutely glowing and practically singing. Then, we went back to watch Chris shoot the rest of the sequence and Hunt invited her to help him direct! We got to stay for the whole rest of the day 'cos Becks was co-directing. It was  _ so _ cool! I was super jealous. Then, after he’d finished shooting, Hunt said to all of us that we'd done ‘a respectable job’ and Chris Winters said that was high praise, so we were  _ stoked _ . And, when we were driving home, Becks told me Hunt had said she was brighter than his university students; that's when she decided to apply to Hollywood U.”

“I thought she came here because of the benefactor,” I murmur but the girl on the phone carries on as though I haven't spoken.

“We got to go to the premiere; the six of us were sat down the front with Chris and Hunt. I sat next to Chris – I mean, who wouldn't, right? – but Becks sat next to Hunt. Like I said, she and Richard weren't dating yet but he looked well jealous and took the seat next to her. Afterwards, Hunt asked us for  _ our _ opinions, like he really cared what we thought. And he called us 'talents'. And  _ thanked _ us! It was incredible! Then, Hunt turns to Becks – like, turns his back on the rest of us, sort of thing – and basically says that he wants to mentor her and that she should totally apply to Hollywood U!” Addison passes on the latest gossip about Chris Winters, while Lisa and I sit stunned, trying to process what we've just heard.

“Hunt’s the  _ reason _ she came to Hollywood U,” whispers Lisa, once the call has ended. “Can you even–? I mean, I thought college was all about parties, so I was disappointed to find more studying was required but… Can you imagine coming here  _ because  _ of Hunt and then for him to treat her the way he does?”

“No wonder she brought up  _ Hamartia  _ when he said about people’s careers benefiting from working with him,” comments Addison, looking just as stunned as I feel.

“It must have been devastating when he took Bianca’s word for what happened in the club that night,” I add as it occurs to me and the two girls inhale, sharply.

“Why hasn't she left?” exclaims Crash and we look up to see him in the doorway from the bathroom.

“The benefactor,” states Lisa and the realisation hits all of us that, if this unknown person stops giving her money, our best friend might leave without a moment’s notice.


	4. One Coat Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: the second of two alternate scenarios that sprang to mind when playing the "Freaks and Greeks" quest  
> this one is pretty close to the canon dialogue, it just adds a coda
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

Professor Hunt marches up to us and my heart sinks from the pit of my stomach down to my boots.

“My god, what have you done?” he bellows and I feel tears beginning to well up. All the time and effort we’ve put into creating this fraternity, and it's all been ruined by that redheaded creep. “You poisoned half the faculty, never mind the student body!”

“Professor–” Hunt cuts Addison off with a raised hand.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses! This happened on  _ your _ watch! I demand to know who’s responsible for this!” I can see my friends exchanging looks out of the corner of my eye as I steel myself for the unpalatable lie.

“We  _ all _ are.” My voice is tight with strain but Lisa jumps in quickly enough for no-one to notice.

“This was our event. We each shoulder the blame,” adds Ethan, ever the businessman.

“You're joking,” scoffs Hunt and I have to bite my tongue. “ _ All _ of you want to go down for this? You know what this means, don’t you?” I shrug, although my face is contorted with sorrow and disappointment; the fraternity is doomed regardless.

“Hnnn… yeah… we know.” Trust Crash to articulate our discomfort and comprehension of the consequences so succinctly.

“No charter,” I sigh. “No fraternity.” I look up and make eye-contact with the cinema titan. “Sorry to let you down, Professor.” It's almost more than I can manage to keep from sobbing as Hunt looks us up and down.

“Actually,” he begins in a much gentler voice than I have ever heard him use. “I’m mildly impressed at the whole ‘I am Spartacus’ routine. That sort of teamwork and loyalty isn’t often seen in Hollywood these days. Perhaps not  _ every _ fraternity is a cesspool of debauchery.” He shoots a venomous glare at the backs of the cackling Rho Bros, while I try to resist the excitement that's bubbling in my chest. “Maybe there’s a chance that a new Greek organization could add something  _ different _ for a change.” Hunt produces a bundle of papers that look awfully like our charter from his jacket pocket and signs it. “Congratulations,” he beams, handing the document to Ethan. “By the way, how close did you come to your donation goal?” Our resident agent, ever resourceful, juggles the charter and clipboard in his hands, and mentally tallies the donations.

“Uhh, let me see… looks like… wow, we only came up one coat short.” As he says the number, I know what's coming next and, sure enough, Hunt shrugs out of his jacket. The movement is almost Gallic and the delicate way in which he folds the garment could also be French. Then, he steps towards me. My breath sticks in my throat and my heartbeat doubles as the man I've been crushing on for months lays his signature jacket in my arms. His gaze is locked to mine and his finger-tips trail across my arms as he abandons the jacket. “You're welcome,” he says with an actual smile on his face and I glow. He walks away, leaving the donation point and I remain where he left me, holding that beloved jacket.

“Uh, Becks.” Lisa steps into my line-of-sight. “You gonna put that in the basket?”

“No,” I reply, quite calmly and slowly. “I am taking this home with me. The mission can have that pink fluffy thing that Addi gave me from the reject bin at Faux Pas.”

“But, Becks–” Addison begins to complain and I swivel to frown at her.

“Addi, I've never worn it since you made me try it on. And the only time I could wear it would be for evening parties during the winter months. But this… I can take it home with me on my next break and wear it whenever I'm at home.”

“What's the point in wearing it if Hunt can't see it?” teases Lisa.

“I've got more of a survival instinct than to let him see me wearing it,” I drawl and they all laugh. I quit the field in possession of the prize with Ethan on my heels to collect the pink monstrosity. It's a tricky maneuver to keep hold of the jacket while I unlock my dorm-room door. As soon as we get inside, I cross to the closet, pull out an empty velvet-covered hanger and slip the jacket about its shoulders before dragging out the beech hanger from which the pink puffball is suspended.

“I can't believe Addi thought you would like this,” grins Ethan.

“She didn't,” I answer with a smile of my own. “Not really. Remember when – just after Victoria Swensen’s thing – Marianne told her she could take whatever she liked from the rejects bin?” He nods, of course. “Well, she found the perfect thing for everyone else and grabbed this for me as it was the most expensive and she thought I could wear it to big-name events and contract negotiations.” My reliable agent reliably snorts at the mental image of me showing up at Anders Stone’s office looking like I skinned Sesame Street’s Two-headed Monster.

“Come on. We need to get all of these to the Mission,” Ethan reminds me, tugging at my hand. I grin and we leave. It's the last time I see my dorm that day because, after we deposit our donations, Crash convinces us to go straight to a gastropub to celebrate. Three hours and many drinks after we've finished our food, Lisa insists on going straight to a club. So, it's some time after 3 in the morning before I get back and after 1 the next afternoon before I remember the jacket. I get up from my desk and open the closet doors, and there hangs a piece of Thomas Hunt. I take it off its hanger and slip it on atop my pyjama-top. It smells of the man, as I had assumed it would, and I take a deep breath. However, I'm distracted from the spicy aroma by the sound of crinkling paper. I check the two side pockets but find nothing. Then it occurs to me a blazer like this probably has an inner pocket at the breast. Sure enough, in a pocket over my heart, I find a note. I expected it to be a grocery list or something but it's an actual note, to me. The surprise has me plopping down onto the bed.

> Rebecca, if you are reading this, congratulations on the fraternity. I trust you will make me proud, _Thomas_


	5. The Happy Dropout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: this is the first of the drabbles I wrote but I can't now pinpoint when in the game's chronology it happens
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV character is Thomas Hunt

“Miss Sinclair,” I call and the blonde peels herself away from her friends, reluctantly. “Can you tell me  _ why _ Miss Davidson failed to attend the first lecture of winter term?”

“Becks? Didn't you know, professor? She transferred.”

“What do you mean ‘transferred’? Where did she go? The Juilliard?”

“No,” beams the girl. “She's just at UCLA.”

“But UCLA only offers a generic theatre course, not–”

“But she's not doing acting anymore! She's now pre-psych.”

“How could she transfer from an acting BFA to pre-psych?” I insist, giving voice to my incredulity.

“She had an offer from them before coming to Hollywood U and they hadn't filled all their places, so when she inquired about transferring they jumped at the chance to have her.” Thankfully, the girl has obviously misunderstood the target of my incredulity.

“But she must have started the process in October.” Before I put her through the zombie attack, I think, but after our run-in at the masquerade ball.

“Yeah, she got pissed off with her mysterious benefactor pretty quick.” Her eyes bug out and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, professor.”

“On your way, Miss Sinclair,” I bite out, trying to cover for my previous slip.

“Thank you, professor.” She turns to the door and trots out at the top speed possible in those heels, leaving me to contemplate the fact that my star freshman had left the program.

*~*

After two more lectures, I finally have a few free hours. I can't say whether I delivered those lectures well but, thankfully, I've taught every course so many times that I can pretty much go on autopilot, unless someone asks me questions. Someone like Rebecca Davidson. There is no-one like her in either of the junior or sophomore classes I taught after discovering she left. There's not been a girl like her in awhile. Scratch that, I've never had a student like her. What I meant was, it's been awhile since my freshman protégé was a girl. A young woman. There have been plenty of students, both male and female, who wanted to date me. Never before, however, has one of my protégés wanted to date me. I have never dated a student, even if I have dated actresses who are college age, but then I first met Rebecca when she was a high school junior. She and some friends answered our casting call on  _ Hamartia _ , and the moment I saw her I knew I had the face of my teen hostages. I had intended the role to go to a guy – after all, Agent Myers barely listens to what women say, nevermind some girl – but she was so relaxed around Chris, unlike her friends, and so obviously the leader that I had to cast her. Then, in the space of the 20 minutes in which they were in hair and make-up, she memorised all her lines and had a handle on the character. I rarely see that dedication and perfectionism from my freshman students, so I was pleasantly surprised. Then, after we finished shooting her scenes, she showed some curiosity in the directorial aspect, so I allowed her to be my co-pilot for a while. She was good and I told her so, told her she should come to Hollywood University. From the moment she walked through my classroom door, however, I have driven her harder than any other student because I thought that would make her excel. Obviously, I was wrong. Instead, I have broken her. I don't know what I'll say to her when I find her but I know I can't leave it like this.

*~*

So, rather than heading to the local gastropub with the latest stack of scripts sent over by my agent, I drive to UCLA’s admissions office. I only remove the shades once I'm safely inside and then give the woman behind the desk my most winning smile, hoping she'll recognise me.

“Ohmigosh! You're that actor! I loved you in…” She gabbles away and I just stand there, smiling, until she asks for a selfie, to which I happily acquiesce before signing an autograph ‘For Hailey, With love, Thomas Hunt’. “But what are you  _ doing _ here, Mr Hunt?”

“Please, call me ‘Thomas’.” I'm not known for using charm to get what I want but then this is already an extraordinary situation.

“Ooh!” sequels Hailey. “So, are you scouting for shooting locations for your next film?”

“Actually, I'm looking for a student. They were one of mine at Hollywood U but they've just transferred here. Thing is, before winter break, they had to submit a film – on actual 65mm film – and I want to return it to them but they didn't tell me where they're living. I was hoping you could help me out, Hailey.” I turn the smile up a notch and allow one eyelid to drop in a wink. She flutters and turns to her keyboard.

“Do you know his full name?”

“Rebecca Naomie Davidson.” Her face falls slightly on discovering I'm looking for a young woman and I'm glad I kept my language gender-neutral at first.

“She's over in Westwood Palm,” she eventually tells me, a grudging edge in her voice. “Unit 408.”

“Thanks a lot,” I answer, already plugging it into the SatNav on my smartphone. I turn and head back to the car. Five minutes later, I'm pulling up to the sidewalk outside the university apartment block, hopping out over the car door and heading for the entrance as though I live there. Surprisingly, the street-door isn't locked and I easily make it to the fourth floor. When I knock at the door of Unit 408, it's opened by a girl yet more blonde than Addison Sinclair and who looks like she ought to have gone to a sorority straight from her cheerleading squad. “I'm looking for–”

“O.M.G.,” she gasps and I recognise the symptoms of another starstruck member of the public. “You're Thomas  _ Hunt _ !”

“Hunt?!” snaps a voice I remember all too well. Rebecca Davidson comes out of a door to the blonde's right. “Go on, Josie. Don't keep Chip waiting; I can handle this.” The look in her eyes is enough to make me cringe, so I am glad she doesn't want her roommate around.

“But, Becks, it's–”

“I know who it is, Josie. I'll explain it to you later.”

“There's something to explain?” Thankfully, the blonde’s phone buzzes and she gives a start when she reads the message. “Chip’s downstairs. See you later, Becks.” Rebecca waits until the other girl disappears through the door to the stairs before dragging her eyes to me.

“What do  _ you _ want?” I suppress a wince and begin:

“You left–”

“Yes. And? I had submitted all pending assignments before leaving and received your critique before arriving here.”

“You left without saying goodbye.”

“Why would I go out of my way to say goodbye to someone who despises and disrespects me?” she snarls and, this time, I do wince. How has it come to this? I admitted it wasn't a mistake to kiss her at the ball and, I think, I told her I had feelings for her in that damned warehouse, and she was so worried for me during the zombie house. What has soured her opinion of me? I thought she understood the situation. “You're the  _ last _ person I want to see, professor. Go back to school.” It hurts to hear my own words thrown back at me with more venom than I could ever have mustered towards her.

“You're  _ not  _ my student. I'm  _ not _ your professor,” I say with emphasis, matching her in the quotation department. “This changes  _ everything _ .”

“Yes. Everything  _ has _ changed. Including my delusions about you.” I can't take this hostility any more, so I catch her around the waist, pull her to me and kiss her firmly. When we break apart, I see anger in her eyes and try to head her off at the pass.

“Was that a delusion? Or the result of your pestering? I  _ can't _ date one of my students but you're no longer my student, you're not even a student at HU. While I think the world has lost a great actress, I'm hoping we can make this work.”

“What if I'm no longer interested? What if I've hooked up with someone from Berry High when I went home for winter break?”

“Then I've made a complete idiot of myself and you have me in your power in more ways than one.” I grind out.

“During senior year,” she muses. “I had three college places on offer – the Acting BFA at HU, pre-psych at UCLA or… pre-psych at Princeton. I could've transferred to Princeton just as easily.” As I take in what that means, my lips twist themselves up into a smile and I take a step towards Rebecca, who is suddenly grinning. I step into her personal space and wrap my arms around her to kiss her again. This time, breaking apart is much gentler and we smile at each other, and her eyes are soft.


	6. The Danger of Dinner Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: this is by far the longest one I've written and that's because the MC's dialogue in the "Dinner Party" date got me hopping mad  
> Rebecca Davidson is much more a self-insert in this story
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

We're finally approaching the end of term and my chance to escape celeb-ville for three whole weeks. Addi and I are sat next to each other, waiting for Thomas you-are-my-weakness Hunt to finish the final lecture of the week, so we can spend the weekend shooting the requisite film for his latest assignment and write 1200-word essays for Professors Bishop and Barlow.

“And, before I forget, I have one more announcement.” I groan, inwardly; another announcement from my snarky and sarcastic half-requited crush did not bode well for the serious amounts I needed to catch up on after having finally wrapped  _ Clash at Sunset _ . “As many of you know, it's almost time for my end-of-term dinner party.” – why's he telling us this? does he want wait-staff? – “Those who finished in the top ten percent of this class are invited.” My jaw drops, literally. A party, hosted by the austere auteur, that I might be invited to on the basis of academic merit, not whether he desired my presence. I allow his dire invocations and Bianca’s inanities to wash over me as I pack up my notepad and pencil-case at top speed, impatient to inspect the class list and see if I've made the 10% cut. I should have but this is Hunt, who's to say he wouldn't alter the printed list to keep me at arms’ length. “...big-name people in the business will also be there, so  _ don't  _ embarrass me this time.” My heart swells with hope; he might ride me twice as hard as any other freshman (thanks to Bianca and the drink-spilling incident) but even he wouldn't deny me the networking opportunities this dinner will bring. If I haven't made the cut, I shouldn't be here and should look at going home to a British uni and doing a proper degree, starting in October. At least with the Atlantic Ocean between us, he would have to stop pretending I'm harassing him and I'd have the space to get over whatever feelings I have for the man. Of course, all of that prognostication is moot as soon as I find my name is highlighted in the neon yellow of victory.

*~*

The day of the dinner party arrives, thankfully after our exams week, and Addi turns up at my door about eight hours early to help me pick my outfit. Fashioniste, I ask you! With her usual subtlety, she suggests that I ought to look ‘crazy hot’, or intelligent or mature. As though those last two are mutually exclusive and undesirable. I – being me and not a bleach-blonde, well-meaning fame-seeker – opt for maturity. After all, that is what I have on the Bianca Stones of this world.

“You have the confidence. Now, you just need the clothes to match,” burbles Addi, pulling up the website of her favourite boutique to show me a little black dress that shows far more cleavage than I'm comfortable with.

“No, Addi,” I say, gently. “I want to look mature and professional, which means something that doesn't make me self-conscious. So, nothing too revealing and nothing bought specially.” I go to my wardrobe and pull out the silver brocade shirt that I adore and a pair of black suit-trousers that I've worn to production meetings. I lay those on my bed, where Addison is sitting, before delving into the chest of drawers for my beloved dark green T-shirt, which accentuates my breasts without thrusting them under your nose.

“You'll look so  _ old _ if you wear these,” whines my fashion-is-life friend.

“The idea  _ is  _ for me to look grown up and adult.”

“OK but you should totally go for that green vest-top you love, not the V-neck. And the silver pairing makes complete sense but, rather than the shirt, you should wear those silver-grey slacks you had on at brunch with Lisa the other day.” It seems to have passed her by that I had paired those trousers with an imperial purple blouse, and that I normally wear the vest for clubbing.

“It's a  _ dinner _ party, not a nightclub.” I try my hardest to keep my exasperation out of my voice but I'm not sure I succeeded. “I'll swap the T-shirt for the vest.”

“You should still switch the trousers,” she urges and I concede the point. I won't quite be wearing a suit with the vest as a colour accent but almost. Addi instructs me to where the magenta suede stiletto boots – because, apparently, the truly fashionable don't care as much about colour co-ordination as combining fashionable items – and I add my silver Celtic knot pendant, green and clear gem earrings, and my bracelet of farthings. “What’s  _ that _ ?”

“Christening present, from my grandmother. They're farthings issued the year I was born. It's genuinely old, has sentimental value and is quirky.” I tick these points off on my fingers and she shrugs.

*~*

When we show up at Hunt’s house and no-one answers the door, I'm glad to have one of last year's invitees with me. I, being British, would probably have waited out there for ten minutes, trying the bell and knocker at regular intervals, and then checked the uni website for a phone number. If that failed to produce anything but an office extension, I might have tried to DM Hunt on Twitter and then, after a further ten minutes, would have gone home and cried. Addi, on the other hand, waits long enough for the sound of the doorbell to die away and then opens the front door. We step into an immaculate, marble-tiled foyer with a framed poster for  _ Ruin _ on one wall. 

“It sounds like everyone's already out back,” comments Addison. I nod, then peel off my leather jacket and rewind my black-and-silver silk scarf. Addison, of course, is wearing pink; a hot-pink dress with  _ nothing _ above the sweetheart bustline and a bell-like skirt. A thin magenta leather belt and magenta heels give me suspicions that my shoes weren't picked for their fashionability but to tie our outfits together. She hangs her pale pink cotton jacket atop mine and then we head out to the garden, which is dominated by a pool to my surprise. I scan the vista of Hollywood U students and spot Hunt on the near side. Feeling bold, I decide to use the Mediterranean greeting, which is the perfect way to be intimate but make it appear innocuous. I catch his eye, so he can't complain I ambushed him, walk up to him and kiss him on both cheeks, revelling in the brief touch of his stubbled jawline. To my utter horror, he shoves at my shoulders and begins berating me for being inappropriate.

“Qual è il tuo problema?!” I almost yell at him, embarrassed and indignant. “I thought you were sophisticated enough to be au fait with the European greeting. You  _ have _ been to Cannes Film Festival? And Venice?” For a split-second, he gawks at me, his mouth slightly agape; then, his usual scowl snarls up his face again.

“But you're not European.”

“ _ Excuse _ me?!” I flare up. After everything that's been happening in the UK in the last year, that was possibly the worst argument he could have chosen. “No referendum is going to stop me being a European!” He splutters, he gapes, he fails to apologise and, finally, he mutters:

“I have more guests to greet. Excuse me.” Again, I am grateful for Addison, who grabs me by the arm and drags me into the crowd of party-goers before I can give into the temptation to spit on the ground, shake the dust from my feet and leave his home. All too soon, we find ourselves besides the bar to find His Nibs talking to Marianne Delacroix. That makes it Addi’s turn to freeze up.

“OMG.” I can already hear her hyperventilating. “I had  _ no _ idea she'd be here.”

“Calm down,” I hiss at her, grinning. “She loves you, Victoria Swenson loves you. Nothing you do or say is going to lose you the internship.” Apparently, that hadn't occurred to her because her eyes go wide and her breathing speeds up even more. Inwardly cursing myself, I hear the  _ Faux Pas  _ editor say:

“Your students deserve to know the truth!”

“About what?” I put in, willing my voice to be light and teasing. “Don't tell me he  _ did _ cook the grades to ensure only the best behaved students were allowed in.” The fashion idol laughs but Hunt scowls.

“Are you one of Thomas’ students? Wait! Don't I know you?”

“Yes, I am. And, no, not really. I leant Addi a hand with the soiree for the launch of Victoria Swenson’s collection.”

“Is Addi here, too?” She looks over my shoulder, spots my friend and goes to greet her, leaving me with Hunt.

“Don't you have somewhere else to be?” he grinds out.

“I just came to get a drink,” I assure him in a tone of true innocence. “Or am I not allowed to act like all the other guests? Am I meant to maintain a 30-foot distance all the time? Because that could be quite difficult during dinner, unless you've sat me in the kitchen.” His scowl depeens, downs his Scotch and goes to retrieve Mme Delacroix from Addison and Bianca.

“Dinner will be served soon,” I hear him say and I sigh at the smile in his voice. “We should find our seats, Marianne.” I grab the Scotch – a surprisingly high-quality single malt – and pour myself a finger’s worth, which I sip as I join the two interns.

“They seem to be making  _ nice _ ,” I snark, watching the two professionals walk inside.

“Oh, Becks, you don't need to worry,” Addi says, attempting to console me. “Marianne has a boyfriend.”

“Not any more,” sighs Bianca and it occurs to me that she was my rival at Aria’s date auction. “They broke up, like, super recently. It's just not fair… Who has a chance against her? No-one. She's the  _ perfect _ woman for him: she's elegant, charming, sophisticated, not to mention beautiful. And they only broke it off last time because she moved to New York for her big magazine break.”

“Last… time?” I ask as the world begins to tilt. If I'd done any pre-drinking, I would blame the alcohol but there's no way a couple of sips of whisky have affected me that much, so quickly.

“You didn't know? Marianne and Hunt used to be  _ an item _ .”

“And now they're back together again, at a party, with alcohol.” I down the rest of my aperitif. “Oh,  _ yay _ .” Bianca is in no position to criticise me for not being nice and Addison is too nice to criticise me for my shortcomings, so we all head inside without another word. Stan sees the three of us hesitating, blinks at the sight of us together and waves us over to where he and Willow are already sitting, at the foot of Hunt’s table.

“Hey… ladies.” His hesitation is adorable and perfectly understandable. “Addi, that namecard is yours.” He gestures at the place opposite him, which is also on Willow’s left. “And, Bianca, this is you,” he adds, pointing to the plate to his right.

“Ugh. I can't believe that I have to sit with you losers,” complains the trust fund princess.

“I  _ know _ , right? One would've thought that Professor Hunt would have spread us out along the length of the table.” I'm not shouting but I can be certain that my voice carried to the head of the table and the clenching of Hunt’s jaw is just added confirmation.

“Oh, are you some of Thomas' students?” beams the balding grey-haired man to the left of the empty place beside Addison.

“Yes, and budding filmmakers,” I smile back, showing no teeth. I step closer and rest a hand on the back of the empty chair, a quick glance at the namecard confirming that it is mine. “You might have heard rumour of an adaptation of  _ Clash at Sunset _ , starring Lisa Valentine.”

“Why,  _ yes _ , I have. Are you appearing in that?”

“Yes but, more to point, I'm producing it.” His eyes fly up from my cleavage to my eyes and a hint of wariness appears in them. “Addison Sinclair, here” – I continue, acting as though I hadn't noticed his change of focus – “is Lisa’s co-star. Stan Farina is one of the wardrobe designers and Willow Levine is head of the hair and makeup department.” I don't see why Willow being our only makeup artist means that I wouldn't describe her as the head of the department, and this new acquaintance did not need to know that Addison, Stan and his boyfriend, Nigel, were doing all the costumes.

“And what's your name, my dear young lady?”

“Rebecca Davidson,” I chime as though leaving my own name to last was accidental.

“Then, this is your seat. Allow me.” The man stands, evidently intent on holding my chair for me. I circumvent him by holding out a hand.

“I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name.”

“Oh! I'm Johnnie Harkwright. I thought you would have recognised me.”

“I thought it  _ was _ you” – I've never heard of him but this is Hollywood, where egos must be stroked – “but once burned, twice shy, y’know? I once went up to this guy in the National Gallery, thinking it was Julian Sands, and it was actually Sting.” Betraying any faith I might have had in their acting ability, my classmates all allow their confusion to show on their faces, even Bianca doesn't manage to mark it with her usual scorn. Harkwright, however, laughs and that draws the attention of several of his neighbours.

“But that is so  _ easily _ done!”

“I know but it is rather embarrassing to approach a world-famous rockstar with ‘I thought you were wonderful in  _ Towards Zero _ ’.” I sit down while they're all busy laughing and, once Harkwright realises he's missed his chance with my chair, he resumes his own seat.

“So, who did you think I was?”

“Ed Harris,” I hazard, hoping he's older than the actor and will take it as a compliment. He grins and jerks his chin at the woman sitting beside Bianca.

“Charlotte, did you hear that? This young lady almost mistook me for Ed Harris.” The glamourous 40-something looks up from the phone in her lap and I realise I'm looking at Charlotte Jenkins, the actress and producer waging a one-woman crusade to make sci-fi and fantasy films female-friendly; exactly the sort of person who could help me promote  _ Clash at Sunset _ .

“Did you see his latest film?” Her voice is deep and breathy, and one that would make it difficult for me to take her seriously if I didn't already know who she was.

“Do you mean  _ mother!  _ or does he have something else on the festival circuit?”

“I don't expect you have access to the festivals… yet.”

“No, I don't. And–”

“Really?” put in Bianca, all faux surprise. “Daddy always takes  _ me _ to Venice and Cannes.”

“Who are  _ you _ ?” inquired the woman beside her, sounding bored.

“Bianca Stone,” she says, preening.

“Anders’ little girl?” puts in Harkwright, encouragingly.

“That sexist dinosaur?” says Charlotte Jenkins and it takes all my self-control not to choke on my drink. “This is the one party of the season where I know I'll be safe from bumping into him.” With Bianca fuming, the feminist crusader turns back to me. “So, what did you make of the Aronofsky piece?”

“Well, I walked out wanting to scrub my eyeballs.”

“It wasn't  _ that _ bad,” objected Harkwright, jocularly.

“I didn't mean that it was bad – I actually kinda loved it. But the visceral horror…”

“What  _ are _ you talking about?” Marianne Delacroix calls from the far end of the table.

“Aronofsky’s  _ mother! _ ,” replies Ms Jenkins and I grin. “We were just about to hear the opinion of…?”

“Rebecca Davidson.” Normally, I wouldn't have responded with my full name but the whole table, a veritable who's who of show business, is listening for the reply.

“And what  _ do _ you think, Rebecca?” challenges the fashion editor and I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

“While I was watching it, I was so blown away by the production values and the soundscape, and revolted by the viscera” – that raises a murmur of amusement, which emboldens me – “that I missed all the themes, apart from the obvious global warming narrative. It was only later that the Biblical allegory became blindingly obvious.”

“Wow. It really sounds like you know your stuff.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Delacroix.”

“Oh,  _ please _ , call me ‘Marianne’; any friend of Addison is a friend to me.” I sit there, stunned by the idea that Marianne has made the decision of which intern to keep and has chosen Addison, as Hunt instructs the waiters to bring out the main course. When I come back to myself, Ms Jenkins is talking to the man on her other side as is Harkwright and my friends are discussing their plans for the winter break. That leaves the girl across from me as my only viable conversation partner and, suddenly, an evil thought crosses my mind.

“So, Bianca, I saw you and Lance at the cinema on Thursday.”

“Yeah…?”

“So, what did you think of  _ Hamlet _ ?”

“What?”

“Y’know, the encore of Benedict Cumberbatch’s  _ Hamlet _ .”

“Why would anyone go to the cinema just to watch an encore?”

“Because it's the most talked about production of  _ Hamlet _ , ever,” drawls Ms Jenkins.

“Which is so unfair to Andrew Scott because his is, arguably, the best performance ever given,” I half-wail in an agony of passion.

“You didn't see that on live-streaming!” puts in Marianne from the far end of the table. “How come you were in London?”

“To get the correct stamp in my American passport,” I retort, my tone implying the eye-roll that I don't actually let loose. “I might be an American citizen but I've lived the majority of my life in the UK, so I have to jump through a couple of extra hoops to make my US passport valid.”

“I hadn't realised you were British,” trills Marianne and, this time, I can't resist rolling my eyes. Charlotte Jenkins catches my gaze and gives me a glimpse of a long-suffering smile. “So, you would say, Rebecca, that Scott is better than Tennant?”

“How many versions  _ are _ there?” giggles Bianca before I can respond.

“Well, it is  _ Hamlet _ ,” I say, unable to work out how else to answer that.

“Yes,  _ and _ ?”

“The Shakespeare play? ‘To be or not to be’? Every actor wants to play Hamlet because it's the toughest role in theatre? Am I ringing any bells?”

“Shakespeare? Isn't he, like, a  _ hundred _ ?” My mouth drops open; even Addi had seen the Branagh film before I dragged her out on Thursday and Aria at least knew who Shakespeare was.

“Thomas,” drawls Charlotte Jenkins at a volume to catch the host's attention. “If all of your students are as oblivious as this, I can understand why you're always complaining.”

“Why? What has Rebecca Davidson said now?”

“Not  _ her _ ; she's the only one who gives me any hope.” She gives me a broad grin and I glow. “No, I meant the one sat next to me.”

“Bianca? What has Bianca said?” I know it's Marianne who's speaking but my eyes are riveted to Hunt’s face to see how he responds to one of his guests praising me. Damn him and his superior acting ability, which allows him to remain inscrutable.

“She thinks Shakespeare is still alive.” Most of the table erupts in laughter and I find myself feeling bad for Bianca. I hadn't meant to embarrass her this much; I had only meant to point out that she chose _Star_ _Wars_ over Shakespeare.

“I don't get what the big deal is,” she pouts, flipping her hair in an attempt at defiance.

“We’re talking about the greatest writer in the English language!” scoffs Marianne.

“We haven't covered him yet in class,” comments Thomas and I wonder if he's trying to be generous. If so, it doesn't work. “Yes but I'm sure your other students are familiar with Shakespeare!” Marianne seems unprepared to cut her intern any slack. “Addison, when did you first see a Shakespeare play?”

“Uh…” she hesitates, possibly uncomfortable with the whole table looking at her. “There were these people who came and did a musical version of  _ Romeo & Juliet  _ when I was in middle school.”

“Ooh, we had that too,” cuts in Willow, eagerly. “But it was  _ Macbeth _ , so that kinda freaked me out. Macbeth should  _ not _ sing right after he's murdered the king.” That raises a chuckle and the redhead beams.

“My mom took me to see  _ Julius Caesar _ in 6th Grade because we were studying the Romans in history,” Stan volunteers.

“What about you, Rebecca?” asks Marianne, her smile indulgent but her tone is a harsh challenge.

“I  _ think _ the first time I saw a Shakespeare production live was when we went to see  _ Twelfth Night _ and that would've been when I was about 9. But, then, I'm British,” I continue as quickly as possible, hoping to distract her from Bianca. “I mean, I'd already acted on the Globe stage by then.” That causes the stir I was hoping for and Bianca seems forgotten as the older woman beside Marianne demands in a plummy voice:

“ _ How _ had you acted at the Globe before you were  _ nine _ ?”

“This was while we were still living in London. My home-ed group went to the Globe for an educational trip and we had this acting workshop where we learnt the sword-fight in  _ Romeo & Juliet,  _ then they took us onto the stage to perform for our parents.” Everyone responds warmly to the mental image of little kids pretending to fight with swords on that famous stage as I'd hoped they would. “Allow me to ask  _ you  _ a question, Marianne. Have you ever seen a production of  _ Doctor Faustus _ ?” I can't help myself; I have to pronounce that title in the German way.

“I've seen the Busoni opera. Is that what you mean?” Her confusion is understandable; it makes no sense to jump from Shakespeare to 20th century opera, after all.

“No, I meant the Christopher Marlowe play, ” I respond with a Hollywood smile masking my condescension.

“Oh,  _ no _ , I haven't. Is it good?” I nod, calmly but emphatically.

“The production I saw was  _ very _ good but, then, it was a bit different.”

“Oh? How?”

“Do you know the Blackwells in Oxford?” The plummy woman next to Marianne is nodding but the fashion editor frowns. “Well, you know Oxford–”

“No, I've never been.”

“Oh, you  _ should _ . It's one of the most beautiful cities in the world.”

“And what would  _ you  _ know about the rest of the world?” interposes Hunt, presumably trying to embarrass me in favour of his old-new girlfriend.

“Quite a bit, actually.” My voice is tight and I sit up straighter. “I spent six months living just outside Rome, six weeks in Zürich, another six months near Stuttgart and three months close to Bremen. I've also visited Paris, the Netherlands, Croatia, Brussels and Tokyo.”

“You've been to Tokyo?” Harkwright sounds surprised and interested.

“Yeah, we went to a robotics competition out there when I was 16.”

“You were at a robotics competition in Tokyo?” exclaims Marianne and I shrug as though it was nothing. “I've been there for magazine shoots but… wow.”

“The advantages of a non-standard education.” I shrug and pick up the glass of cabernet sauvignon which I haven't thus far touched. My eyes are locked on Thomas as I drink.

*~*

“Dessert and after-dinner drinks will be served in the living room in a few minutes. I just have to fetch the moscato from the wine cellar,” our host announces and I catch Addi’s shoulder and draw her ear down to my mouth.

“I'm going to go lend Hunt a hand. Make sure Bianca doesn't follow me, will you?” She grimaces but nods. In the confusion of people leaving the dining-tables, it is easy for me to slip down to the cellar.

“What do you want, Rebecca?” growls Hunt as soon as I catch sight of the back of his head.

“I'd accuse you of recognising my perfume but I'm not wearing any.” The way his head tilts back, as though he's begging God for strength, is very satisfying.

“What are you  _ doing  _ down here?”

“Partially, I wanted to help you carry stuff. Partially, I wanted to talk to you without risking another scene.”

“You're the only one causing a scene,” he spits, whirling around to face me. I know my face is pitying and condescending but he really shouldn't be so petulant.

“ _ I  _ wasn't the one who overreacted to being greeted by a student.”

“It is utterly inappropriate for you to kiss me.”

“Me kissing you, on  _ both _ cheeks, only appears inappropriate to you because  _ you  _ know what else is going on between us. None of your colleagues would have seen it as at all strange, if you hadn't overreacted.”

“ _ I'm _ not the one who engaged in a conversation that had to be shouted the length of the table, preventing anyone else from conversing,” he snaps back.

“No but you  _ were _ the one who sat me at the far end, so Marianne couldn't talk to me at a normal volume. I'd like to point out that she was the one who joined  _ our _ conversation.”

“You  _ deliberately  _ started that conversation about  _ Hamlet _ ,” he accuses, impulsively taking a half-step forward.

“Excuse  _ me _ for not wanting to hear about Addison’s winter break plans for the  _ fifth _ time this week.” I take a stride forwards, he hesitates but decides to hold his ground. “Or sit in silence while Bianca prattles on about how rich and powerful her father is.” I take another stride towards him.

“You shouldn't be so rude about your friends,” he sneers and I let out a strangled squawk of frustration.

“They're my  _ classmates _ , not my friends. Not my  _ true _ friends,” I amend, thinking of Addi and Stan. “Friendship,  _ real _ friendship, comes from shared interests and values, not merely age and circumstance.  _ Surely _ , you're mature enough to know that? Surely, you've been out of the school bubble long enough to have friends of different ages?”

“How  _ dare _ you?” he seethes, thrusting his face into mine.

“Because I don't  _ know _ !” Frustration makes me annoyingly shrill. “You're so  _ young _ –”

“I'm older than you are.”

“Physically, yes, but mentally, I don't know. You're not yet 30 and you had barely left college before you came back to teach. And this is not like the real world.”

“And what would you know of the real world?”

“How many times do I have to say this? I didn't go to school. I learnt by doing real world stuff. I had to assimilate with a different family, of a different culture, when I was 10. I understand dealing with adults as equals who have superior knowledge and experience, I don't get this idea that you're better than me because you're older. I don't get this idea that I lose marks because I didn't complete the assignment in  _ exactly _ the way my professor wanted, even if I did my best and met the brief. It's you and  _ your _ world I don't understand.”

“Don't you understand that your very presence puts everything I've worked my whole life for in jeopardy. So, I'd appreciate it if you weren't around. At all. Leave me  _ alone _ .”

“No, I don't understand that but, if that's how you feel, then I will leave you alone.”

“At last. Don't know why you came…” He trails off as I finish my point.

“I'll leave you here in Hollywood, while I go home for Christmas and not come back. There might not be a ‘mysterious benefactor’ willing to put me through a British uni to do a proper degree but it'll make my mum a lot happier and your career will be  _ all _ safe and pristine.” I pull away and turn to leave but he catches my arm. “Let go! I'm giving you what you want.”

“You're what I  _ want _ ,” he hisses, sounding almost angry, before locking his lips to mine. After several long moments, we separate enough to catch our breath. “If you don't come back after Christmas, I'll come to fetch you,” he whispers.


	7. Excerpt from the diary of Rebecca Davidson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: basically, me (resident of a country without privitised student loans) venting my frustration at having to dance to the tune of a shadowy benefactor for the sake of tuition
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

_ Well, today's been a weird day. First, the hearing. Chance bailed, so Ethan came up with the brilliant idea of asking Holly to vouch for me but, of course, Priya Singh refused to accept her as she's not a well-known name. I don't know what possessed Ethan to think she would. I think we would have had a better chance if we had contacted Marianne and asked her to vouch for me. Amazingly, Hunt came through. In the most insulting way possible, of course, but still… _

_ Then, my so-called friends turned the ‘Going Away’ party they'd planned in advance into a ‘Not Going Away’ party. Holly gave me her unproduced magnum opus and Zoe Rodriguez wants to star in it. Y’know, normal HU day. Except, of course, the budget I've got is tiny and wouldn't pay a tenth of Zoe’s standard fee. _

_ Cue my mysterious benefactor flying to the rescue. Man, I am getting sick of that git. Well, I might have finally got him off my back. After following the infantile riddles, I discovered the super-secret hideout of this uber-powerful alumni association under the film library basement. And they, in the shape of my backstabbing agent, asked me to steal Hunt’s Audrey to prove my loyalty to them. I turned them down flat. Why should I choose this secret society over the professor who just snatched me from the flames? If they wanted my loyalty, maybe they should've found a third professional to vouch for me. _

_ Holly might want her script back but that's fine by me. That damned backer might decide to drop me but that would be doubly fine. If  _ _ he _ _ they're not paying my tuition, I might have to leave but, at least, I would be dropping out, not being kicked out. I'll finish out this year, regardless. Then, I could apply for a British uni through clearing and get away from Hunt’s antagonism, my backer’s manipulation and Bianca’s intimidation. Actually, I can't see any downsides. After all, if I feel like going back to acting after uni, I have several credits on my CV. I just need to make it to the end of this year. _


	8. Sorority Homecoming [incomplete]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: again, I'm not positive where this comes in the chronology but, as I am certain I had more in mind to write, I decided to put it at the end
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was partially inspired by chapters 9 & 10 of "The Freshman", one of Pixelberry's visual novels

It's the Tuesday of Spirit Week and there are five minutes left of Thomas Hunt’s university-mandated office hours, when a knock comes at the door. Swearing under his breath, he gets up to open the door.

“Rebecca?!” His face softens the moment he sees who it is.

“ _ Hello _ , Thomas,” she smirks, quirking an eyebrow at him. Eventually, he thinks to step back and let her in. He shuts the door and, when he turns back to his guest, Rebecca steps into his personal space, slips an arm around his waist inside his blazer and pecks him on the lips.

“Mmm, that's nice,” he hums, keeping her close against his body. They've met in his office before and he knows that no-one can look in but it still gives him a thrill to kiss her at the very heart of his teaching position, so he kisses her again, properly. “How have you been?” Apart from class yesterday, they haven't seen each other since Saturday night.

“You remember how you bet me that I couldn't get into a sorority?” She's wearing a teasing smirk as she pulls away and sits on his dove-grey suede sofa.

“You mean when you discovered that I had tasked the freshmen with becoming Greeks, demanded to know why that hadn't been set last year and, when I told you that I thought  _ you  _ couldn't handle it, inveigled me into making a bet with you? Yes, I remember.” He's still standing where she left him but has no intention of desisting from looming over her, a feat only managed by either of them when the other is sitting, until she spits out whatever is giving her that gleeful gleam in her eye.

“Well, late Sunday night or early Monday morning (I'm not sure which), I found out that I've made the final ten for Sigma Delta Tau.”

“Does that mean you're finished?” He leaves the ‘at last’ unspoken but she can see it in the raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

“They're not going to admit  _ ten  _ new members,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “Saturday’s Homecoming and they're having this grand ball. And they've challenged the pledges to turn up with alumni as escorts.”

“And?” She can see his jaw clenching but she carries on regardless.

“You took your doctorate from here, didn't you? It wasn't an honorary degree, you actually did the research, didn't you?”

“Yes.  _ And _ ?”

“Come on, Thomas. Don't make me spell it out!”

“What part of ‘discreet’ can you not wrap your puerile mind around?” he flares.

“The lack of continuity,” she quips, levering herself up to her feet. “If you don't want to take me, that's  _ fine _ . I'll just go find another alumnus to seduce.” He grips her arm as she tries to leave.

“Don't you know the type of man who comes to  _ Hollywood _ University for Homecoming?”

“Oh, I  _ do  _ know the type; that's what’s going to make this so easy. This might be hard for  _ you  _ to understand – I know, I'm about the last person  _ you  _ wanted to date – but I constantly have to fight off propositions. And not just from skeezebags like these guys. Chris even whisked me away for 24 hours in Las Vegas in my first term here.”

“So, why aren't you dating Chris?” he grinds out, his grip tightening on her arm.

“He took me on a ‘romantic date’ to  _ Las Vegas _ . Surely, you know me better than–” His lips slam down onto hers, silencing her, and her hands fly to his shoulders to press him closer to her. “I  _ want _ you to take me,” she croons, once she's caught her breath. “You can leave as soon as they announce I've been accepted. I'll find some innocuous trust-fund celebutante to spend the rest of the time with. We can tell people it was a bet or a dare by a member of the faculty, or local colour for your next screenplay – you choose. But no-one need be any the wiser.” He chuckles and tucks her more securely under his chin.

“ _ This _ is why you always best every assignment I can dream up; because you think of everything.”

“No chance of persuading you to give us slightly less impossible deadlines, then?” she asks in a fake grumble.

“ _ You _ don't need me to coddle you.” He presses a kiss to her temple and then blindsides her by asking: “Have you ordered your corsage, yet?”

“No,” she yelps, pulling back. “I've not even decided on a dress.” He pulls her back down onto the sofa beside him and she gets out her mobile. “Two options,” she starts, her voice unusually quiet as she's distracted by flicking through menus on her screen. “Both I wore last year… but I haven't been seen in this year.” He recognises the first picture she shows him as he took it himself: it's her, in a translucent red dress with a ballerina skirt, surrounded by the cast of  _ Clash at Sunset _ .

“Hmm… Sundance,” he hums. “I'd promised you a date after the dinner party two months before but hadn't organised it yet. I was terrified of Stone working out there was anything untoward about our relationship.”

“Or this one,” she continues, making no acknowledgement of what he's just said. “No-one's seen me in this.”

“I have,” he mutters under his breath. The photo is a selfie of her wearing the crystalline blue ballgown she wore to the masquerade where they first kissed. “Are there  _ no _ other options?”

“None I'm prepared to risk at a college party, even if it  _ is  _ a ball given by Hollywood’s most elite sorority. But I can't wear last year's Sundance dress to any industry parties this year – not that I'd want to with the whole Anders-cheating-us-out-of-all-profits thing – and that gown is rather old-fashioned, which  _ I  _ love but Addison and Stan tell me is not commensurate with my look. Not that they used the word ‘commensurate’.”

“I  _ was _ going to ask,” he says and she giggles, snuggling against him. “Wear the blue.” She rears back, her mouth dropping open. “You love it, it's special to us and you might not get another chance to wear it.” She relaxes back against him and he tightens his arm around her. “And, if you're wrong and someone works out there's more to our relationship, I want the paparazzi to photograph us with you in  _ that _ dress.”

“Hopeless romantic,” she teases before pressing a kiss to his jaw.

*~*

After the match on Saturday, Rebecca and her friends separate to get ready for their various evening activities. Thankfully, none of her female friends are members of Sigma Delta Tau; Lula, who had agreed to rush with her, had been dropped in the latest cut; and none of her male friends are graduates yet, so she's mostly safe from comment. The floor-length aquamarine gown has black lace forming an exocorset that means it would set off the turquoise-studded black velvet choker Aria had given her for her birthday. However, as a pledge, she's required to wear a gold Hermes scarf, which clashes gloriously. She wonders if the Gryffindor effect might have been preferable, until she remembers that blue and gold are the sorority colours.

“You look swanky!” whistles Celine as she heads downstairs and Rebecca sticks her tongue out at the older student.

“Final pledge event,” she sighs, flicking the scarf. “Hopefully, I'll be accepted and then I can forget all about this nonsense.”

“That doesn't make sense. If you get accepted, then you'll be busier with sorority stuff.”

“You didn't think I actually _ want  _ to be a sorority girl, did you, Celine?” she scoffs, pausing in her descent of the stairs. “I'm doing this to win a bet, and then I'll resign some time before they start asking me for money.”

“Oh.” The aspiring agent looks taken aback. “What do you get if you win the bet?”

“All-expenses paid trip to the Venice Film Festival.” She has been seeding the idea ever since they made the bet because, if she wins, her friends need to not be surprised by it, even if they are surprised that Hunt would make such a bet with her. However, Thomas has allowed himself to be less antagonistic this year, using the success of  _ Clash at Sunset  _ as his excuse. He had, of course, refused to come anywhere near her dorm, so she's on her own to reach the ramshackle mock-Tudor super-cottage that housed the girls of Sigma Delta Tau. She hangs back, outside the circle of light emanating from the sorority, waiting behind a wall of blue rhododendron bushes. After a minute, a group of three freshman girls (one of whom is sporting a yellow cast under her pink cocktail dress) appear with Brian Ratzik and Aria’s dad escorting them. She swears at the risks involved in playing their charade in front of these two.

“I would recognise that voice anywhere: almost loathsome, yet at the same time, attractive.” She spins around, intent on hitting her snarky date, but stops short when she sees he isn't wearing a traditional tuxedo. He has also chosen to wear the sorority’s colours but, where her dress is vibrant and floaty, his suit is dark and solid. While her only touch of gold is the scarf which she is mandated to wear, Thomas has a gold tie in place of his usual blue one and a gold handkerchief.

“Well, don't you look grand,” she says in the most repressive way possible.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” he begins, stepping forward to lay a hand on her wind-chilled elbow. “My head of department was insistent on introducing me to all the alumni in our stands.”

“You've taught here for a few homecomings, haven't you?” Becks notes, catching onto the implication straight away. Her date nods and turns them towards the house. 

“And, every year, she insists on taking me around to meet everyone.”

“Are you sure she's not just trying to keep you at her side for longer?” she teases as she withdraws her elbow from his grip and slips her hand into the crook of his arm.

“As she has a  _ wife _ and three cats at home, I doubt it.” She laughs, heartily, and his eyes crinkle with warmth. Her face falls and she steps towards him, away from the house.

“I'm not sure this is a good idea.” His face creases with concern and one large, warm hand is laid on her shoulder-blade.

“What's happened? Has Venice suddenly lost its appeal?” She swats him before stepping further into his embrace.

“About as much as you have.”

“Thank goodness!” he exclaims, whisperingly, with that provoking smirk playing on his lips.

“Shut up,” she orders, playfully. He does but also shuts her up in the process, sealing their lips. She tries to keep up a suffering air when they part but it's impossible with that warm bubble of happiness filling her chest. “Brian Ratzik and Richard Sheridan are here.” Thomas jerks back and she can't blame him. “They have one and a half freshers a piece.” That piece of nonsense doesn't draw a smirk, he simply squares his shoulders and schools his expression.

“That will only give me someone worthwhile to speak to.” She hears more snarl than snark in that comment but judges it best not to tell him.


	9. Don't Let Your Date Choose The Wine [incomplete]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble summary: this one, while being excessively short, is easy to place. Date number five with Thomas Hunt and he orders food for you and then, when you're asked to choose the wine, your choices are to say you know nothing about wine or not to drink
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters or even most of the dialogue in these stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this date was the content that made me stop playing the game  
> I felt like I was paying money to be condescended to

Her mobile rang as she was leafing through the new pages from Holly. She didn't recognise the number and was tempted to ignore it, assuming it was a cold-call, but then again it could be someone in the Silver Circle looking to collaborate on  _ Permanent Wound _ .

“Rebecca Davidson,” she answered, acutely aware of how upper-class and British her voice sounded.

“Don't tell me you haven't unearthed my number from somewhere and plugged it into your phone.”

“Professor Hunt,” she bit out, dropping back in her seat. “To  _ what _ do I owe the honour?”

“I've been thinking about that date I promised you.” It felt as though her eyes were popping from her head. She stood up – she always felt more comfortable speaking on the phone when standing. “Have I managed to dumbfound you?”

“It's… not very nice to cast aspersions on my intelligence.” She was answered with his dark chuckle. 

*~*

“So many choices,” she breathed, causing Thomas to smirk condescendingly. “...and not a single rioja.” His expression relaxed into surprise. “They  _ do _ have a selection of cabernet sauvignon vintages but there's nothing to distinguish them apart from year.” At that moment, the sommelier swanned over to them. “Ah, just the  _ man _ we need.” She suppressed her consciousness of how out-of-place her emphasis sounded and pressed on with exploring the wine list. “I was just debating between the three bottles of cabernet sauvignon that you offer but none of the listings mention the wine’s provenance.”

“Ah, well, all our wines come from a local vineyard.”

“Oh,” she commented with the politest disparagement she could muster. “Here in California?”

“Well, yes, madam.”

“Oh,” she repeated, rather more snidely and nasally. She closed the wine list and held it out across the table. “I'm sorry, Thomas, but I think you'll be drinking alone this evening. I cannot  _ stand  _ Californian wines; they're more tolerable than Australian wines but that's not saying much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca's comments about wine are very much what I believed at the time. I have since discovered that it was the specific wines from California and Australia that my mum was buying that I didn't like.


End file.
